


The Walls Became the World All Around

by st_aurafina



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Character's abusive childhood is revealed, Comforter reads to hurt character, Comforting character comforted by watching Hurt character sleep peacefully, Dashing Escapes, First Aid, Gen, Helicopters, Hurt character is used to having to tend to their own wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24349078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: Harold and Root are on the run from Samaritan's forces, but working together is not their forte. It might, in fact, be their downfall.
Relationships: Harold Finch & Root | Samantha Groves
Comments: 14
Kudos: 19
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	The Walls Became the World All Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [branwyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/gifts).



> Title from Where the Wild Things Are, which was published when Harold was five.
> 
> Thank you to my two betas.

Decima caught up with them before they could escape the research facility, and now they were pinned down in a workshop.

"Favourite Spice Girls song?" Root said, over the sound of bullets.

Harold's back was starting to scream: crouching down behind an overturned workbench was not an optimal posture. A bullet thunked into the bench and he started, wrenching his neck painfully. The metal surface caught the shot and deformed into a sharp point at the level of his ribs. He shifted sideways so it wouldn't poke him, still keeping his head as low as he could.

Root aimed over the top of the bench without looking and fired a short arc of shots. "Keep up, Harry. Spice Girls. Don't try to tell me you don't know who they are."

"I don't know what makes you think I'm any sort of Britpop aficionado." Harold took careful, slow breaths, pushing panic down. He pointed to the place where the bullet had embedded into the metal of the workbench. "This was targeted. Samaritan clearly has eyes on us from some angle."

"She needs eyes on us too, Harry," said Root. She fired twice, and Harold heard a brief scream. "But not for much longer. Name a song, Harold, or I'll ask her to fill me in on all your dark music secrets."

A bullet slammed into the workbench. Harold closed his eyes and pretended it would not have been a headshot. "I suppose the one where they're on the bus? I don't know what it's called."

The next bullet would have been centre mass. "Or maybe that was from the movie, I don't really remember. The nineties were…"

The bullets came in a storm. Harold kept talking, words spilling out and over. "We were heading into the dot com bubble, I was very busy. Nathan was still doing a lot of cocaine; this was before he got into Pilates and living organic."

Hearing a creaking noise, Harold briefly opened his eyes, and saw that the metal sheet was starting to split near his chest. The next shot would certainly go through. "Root…" he said, then gasped as she threw herself over him.

"Hold on, Harry, we're taking a little ride."

The floor shifted and Harold had one moment of confusion before the entire wall of the building collapsed inward, showering them both with plaster. Root hauled him up and pushed him forward through what had been a solid wall of brick, and they scrambled through the opening. In front of them was the bright yellow chassis of a crane.

Harold blinked brick dust out of his eyes, then Root pulled him aside so the wrecking ball didn't catch him on the back swing. In the cab of the crane, the driver had his arms in the air, staring at the controls as they moved independently.

A taxi pulled up, and the driver wound down his window. "I got a call for Ms Root? Hey – are people shooting in there?"

Root shoved Harold into the taxi and slithered in beside him. "Hi, Luis! We're going to pay off your college debt if you get us out of here in the next minute."

As Luis put his foot to the floor and the cab screamed off out of the construction yard, she turned to Harold and said, "I can't believe you've seen the Spice Girls movie."

* * *

Harold didn't realise for some time that Root had caught a bullet in the shoulder. They were running (or walking extremely briskly in his case) down a corridor in an office building, and Root was arguing with him over abstract syntax trees. Quite effectively, too: Harold was surprised to find himself wishing they could talk about this some time when they weren't being shot at or pursued.

"I know what you're doing," he said when they stopped at a junction. "And it's not necessary."

Root leaned against the wall, shooting round the corner without looking. Instead, she gazed at him with that infuriating, measured smile that used to terrify him. "Beating you to the ground over metaprogramming? Oh, I think that's always necessary, Harold."

Harold's breath burned in his chest. Perhaps he'd blow out a blood vessel rather than having to keep walk-running forever. "You're distracting me from focusing on Samaritan's goons. Are you worried that I'll have a panic attack?"

Root raised an eyebrow, and Harold was painfully aware that he was, in fact, breathing hard and sweating as if he were having a meltdown.

"I'm not!" he said, and it sounded more defensive than he meant it to. Something about her brought out the worst in him, and he hated it. It was the frustrated defiance of a schoolboy, when you knew you were wrong but you just could not stop arguing.

Root fired over the top of Harold's head, and he ducked with a painful wrench of his back. Above him, Root talked in that half-muttered constant dialogue she held with the Machine. It was not a happy conversation.

"I know you want us to go that way,” Root said. "But we won't get there in time." Two more shots down the other end of the junction. "Well, unless you've got another wrecking ball we can ride out on, we need a different option."

She fell silent, and Harold saw she was regarding him, head tilted. He had a sense of double vision, as if he were standing before two people while they assessed and made decisions based on what they saw.

"We could make it to the roof," said Root, glancing upwards. "And he is technically a pilot."

Harold opened his mouth to interrupt, to tell her there was nothing technical about his pilot's licence when something chill slipped round his wrist. He started and glanced down, confused to see Root holding onto him, long fingers cold and grip distressingly gentle. He covered her hand with his own, an instinctive attempt to warm it, and he realised that she was trembling. Now that he was looking carefully, he saw her eyes were very large, and her face the colour of wet paper.

"You are not all right," he said to her, just as her legs started to fold. He caught her awkwardly by one elbow and one armpit. She slumped against him with a goofy, terrifying smile.

"I didn't know you cared, Harry." Her voice was dreamy and faint.

* * *

The next thirty minutes were very unpleasant, and Harold knew he would pay for them later.

"Adrenaline," he said, working on the control panel of the elevator at the end of the corridor, "is a wonderful motivator, but it has told my spine some terrible lies."

In the corner, back to the wall and hair in her face, Root laughed weakly. She held both her guns in her lap, but Harold doubted she had the strength to fire them now. He glanced back at her, tried to gauge her blood loss from the size of the stain on her jacket. How long since she'd been hit? He didn't even know that.

Electricity snapped at his fingertips, and he jerked his hands away from the panel, but it was just the doors closing. He eased himself up, and leaned against the wall while the elevator climbed.

He and Root regarded each other. He knew what her next words would be so when she opened her mouth, he held up a hand.

"No, I will not leave you behind."

She rolled her eyes. "Harry, how many times do we have to go over this? When it comes down to it, you're the most important person in the world. You built her, you need to survive." She tilted her head against the metal panel of the elevator and sighed. "It's always going to be you, and frankly, it's tiring having to fight you over it every single time we come to this point."

Harold watched her, legs folded randomly, hands trembling on her weapons, and wondered not for the first time where on earth she had come from, and in what crucible she had been forged.

"Now, I want you to listen to me very carefully, because this is important," he said, gazing down at Root as if she were the lens of a webcam. "I did not design you to prioritise one life over another. Not then. Not now. Not ever. If you want to work with another person like this, you have to make sure she understands that too."

On the ground, Root stared at him, breathing quick and shallow, and he wondered if this was surprise that he would address the Machine directly like this, or actual shock creeping in. The elevator pinged and stopped, opening on a small lobby that led to the roof. Harold pressed himself flat against the wall of the elevator, but the lobby was abandoned.

"She's sent them to the basement," Root whispered. "False images on the security feed."

Harold hauled Root to her feet and led her stumbling through the double doors to the roof. He stared at the helicopter on the helipad with a growing sense of realisation.

"How bad can it be? You've taken thirty seven flights," said Root, clinging to his arm, leaning heavily against him.

Harold set his jaw. "Those were simulations," he said.

Root sighed and rested her head on his shoulder as if it were too heavy to hold up any more. "Totally counts."

* * *

Fortunately Samaritan kept its aircraft in tip-top condition. Fortunately the Machine could provide enough distraction for Harold to negotiate lift-off without worrying about a hail of bullets. Fortunately simulations counted for something.

Harold flew with careful, determined precision, following procedure. He knew Root was slumped beside him, and he knew that she was properly strapped in, wearing a headset so they could hear each other over the sound of the rotors. That was all he could do for her, while he struggled to match theoretical understanding to actual practice, while keeping them aloft at fifteen hundred feet.

"We are doing fine," he said into his mike, as much to reassure himself as Root. And the Machine.

Beside him, Root stirred. "You want the fork in the river," she said into her headset. "Then straight on until morning."

"Thank you." Harold eyed the river snaking through the forest, and decided he trusted the Machine's guidance over the controls that Samaritan could hack at any time. "I'm going to short out the navigation and fly manually," he said. "Don't worry when you can't track us. I'll be in touch when I can."

The river was narrow and at times disappeared completely from view, but Harold knew his geography, and found his way to the fork with only a few swift detours, then turned north. After a few more minutes in the air, he saw a parking lot at the base of a hiking trail.

Landing with minimal instruments was rocky, but the chopper tucked neatly into the trees. The parking lot was mostly empty, but there were a few trucks and SUVs left by enthusiastic hikers.

When he heaved Root from the cab, she unfolded her legs like a confused spider and stared at the trees. "Pretty," she said, and sagged against his body. "1498 Acacia Terrace."

Harold boosted a car, paid off the owner's mortgage as recompense, then spoofed the GPS software. Then he hurriedly packed Root into the passenger seat. Samaritan would be at the campsite in no time.

He was soon ensconced in the Acacia Terrace house the Machine had chosen, where presumably a well-prepared doctor liked to holiday.

"You're going to be okay," he told Root, packing the wound with sterile gauze. The bleeding had slowed, thank goodness, but she was shivering, and the house, vast and empty, was taking time to warm up. He took her to the smallest room, a child's bedroom, put her in the bed with a hot water bottle. The bed was shaped like a rocket ship, with suns and constellations on the comforter. Harold nestled the hot water bottle against her back and tucked in the blankets. Hopefully it would bring her core temperature up, hold off shock until Ms. Shaw could get here. He put her guns on the dresser that was painted with colourful ABCs and happy aliens, drew the curtains, then watched her nervously from the doorway, feeling oddly like a parent or an older sibling. After a few minutes, he stepped back inside the room, kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, then slid under the covers so he could wrap his body around hers and warm her up.

It was very quiet and peaceful, he thought, holding Root, the hot water bottle a warm glow on his belly sandwiched between them. If Samaritan found them, well. There wasn't much either of them could do to defend themselves at this point. Hopefully John or Ms. Shaw were on their way. Either way, it wouldn't hurt to rest a little now. He reached under the pillow, and his fingers brushed a book, pulled out _Where the Wild Things Are._ Such an old friend, this one.

" _There should be a place where only the things you want to happen, happen,_ " he said, from memory, and sighed. "Too much wild rumpus for us, I think."

Root moved, made a quiet whimper, and then with great effort, tried to turn over in the bed.

Harold held her still, firmly but gently. "No, no, Root. We're safe, we're hidden. The Machine directed us here. Also, you should know this bed is quite small. I am precariously balanced."

Fortunately she stilled. Harold relaxed his grip on her shoulders, and listened to the subvocal noises of the Machine's conversation. He couldn't understand the words, but he saw the effect of it, as Root's body unclenched and her breathing steadied.

"I see stars," she said, eventually, and a long arm emerged from the blankets to touch the wall.

Harold didn't know if she was talking to him or the Machine, but when he craned up over her shoulder he saw a row of luminous stickers on the wall, placed carefully below the sightline of a parent. "Oh, dear, that will damage the paint," he said. "No wonder they're hidden."

"Kiddo's afraid of the dark." Root brushed the stickers. "Bet there isn't a nightlight here."

There wasn't, in fact. Harold hadn't noticed the lack of it, but then he'd never had that particular fear. "It's still the middle of the day," he said, to cover the twinge of sympathy for little Samantha Groves, alone and afraid in the dark. Root would be merciless if she knew he was pitying her.

Root lay still for a long time, long enough that Harold assumed she was sleeping. He took out the picture book and flicked through the pages in the dim light, reminding himself of how beautiful and strange Sendak's illustrations were, how they had fascinated him as a child.

" _And he sailed back over a year,_ " he said out loud. " _And in and out of weeks, and through a day, and into the night of his very own room where he found his dinner waiting for him. And it was still hot_."

Root tipped her body gently, slowly so that she was lying on her back. "Are you reading to me or to her?" Her colour was brighter with a little rest, and her voice stronger.

Harold rearranged them both so her head rested on his arm. "I suppose I'm reading to anyone who is listening," he said. "Both of you, if you like." He held up the book so everyone could see. In the child's bed, he was quite warm and comfortable, and the wooden rocket headboard made a solid support for his shoulders. He turned the book back to the start and began again.

" _The night Max wore his wolf suit, and made mischief of one kind and another…_ "


End file.
